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THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL
IS PUBLISHED
EVERY THURSDAY MORNING,
BY
T. LOMAX & CO.
TENNENT LOMAX, Pki.-icimi. editor.
Office on Randolph street.
Citfxanj Department.
Conducted by CAROLINE LEE HENTZ.
[WRITTEN FOR THE SENTINEL.]
Pyriunus and Thisbe.
PREFACE.
This tragical tale, which they say is a true one,
Is old—but the manner is wholly anew one.
t hie Ovid, a scribbler of some reputation,
Has told it before in tedious narration—
In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness,
But which nobody reads on account of its dullness.
Young Peter Pyramus —l call him “Petei,”
Not for the sake of rhyme or metre,
But merely to make the name complete ;
For Pyramus lived in the olden times,
And in one of the worst of Pagan climes,
That tlourish now in classic tame ;
Long before
Either noble or boor
Had such a thing as a Christian name.—
Young Peter then was a nice young beau
As any young lady would wish to know ;
In years, I ween,
He was rather green,
That is to say he was just eighteen ;
A little too short and a trifle too lean,
But a “line young man” as ever was seen,
And fit to dance with a May-day queen.
And Peter Pyramus foil in love
With a pretty maiden—(he called her his dove/ —
A little Miss Thishe, who lived next door,
(They slept, in fact, on the very same floor,
With a wall between them and nothing more—
Those double houses were common of yore)—
And they lov'd one nnoth -r, the legends say.
In that very bountiful, bcautilul way
That every young maid
And every blade
Are wont to love before they grow staid,
And learn to love by the laws of trade.
But alack-a-day! for the girl and hoy,
A little accident checked their joy, |
And gave them awhile, the de -p.i t annoy.
For some good reason, which history cloaks,
The match didn’t happen to suit the old folks,
So Thisbsjr’ father and Peter’s ntjfcher
Bogan to confer to worry and bother,
Trying their innocent passion to a a >th;r
By keeping the lovers from seeing each other!
But who ever heard
Os a marriage deterred
Or even deferred
By any contrivance so very absurd
As scolding the boy and caging his bird ?
But Peter, who wasn't discouraged at all
By obstacles such as the timid appal,
Contrived to discover a hole in the wall,
Which wasn't so thick
But removing a brick
Made a passage, though rather provokingly small.
Through this little, chink the lover could greet her,
And secrecy made their courting the sweeter ;
While Peter kissed Thi-be and Thishe kissed Peter,
For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls,
Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes!
’Twas here that the lovers, intent upon love,
Laid a nice little plot
To meet at a spot
Near a mulberry tre in a neighboring grove !
For the plan was all laid
By the youth and the maid,
(Whose hearts it would seem were uncommonly bold
ones,)
To run off and get married in spite of the old ones.
In the shadows of evening,as still as a mouse,
The beautiful maiden slipped out of the house,
The mulberry tree impatient to find ;
While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind,
Strolled leisurely out some minutes behind. j
While waiting alone by the trysting tree,
A terrible lion
As e’er you sot eye on,
Came roaring along quite horrid to see,
And caused the young maiden in terror to flee!
(A lion’s a creature whose regular trade is
Blood—and “a terrible thing ’mong the ladies.”)
But losing her veil as she came from the wood,
The monster bedabbled it over with blood.
Now Peter, arriving, and se -ing the veil
All sprinkled o'er
And reeking with gore,
Turn’d all of a sudden exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail;
For soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter
Made up his mind in very short metre,
That Thisbe was dead and the lion had eat her!
So breathing a prayer
He determined to share
The fate of his Thi-be, “the loved and the lost,”
And fell on his sword and gave up the ghost.
Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau
Lying dead hv the veil, (which she happened to know,) I
She guessed in a moment the cause of his erring,
And seizing the knife
Which had taken his life,
In less than a jifly was dead as a herring !
MORAL.
Y oung gentlemen! pray recollect, if you please,
Not to make assignations near mulberry trees!
Should your mistress he missing, it’s very ill bred
To be stabbing yourself, till you know she is dead.
Young ladies! you shouldn’t go strolling about,
When your anxious manias don’t know you’re out;
And remember that accidents often befall
Front kissing young fellows thro’ holes in the wall!
Hi* rEJf EXPRESSLY FOR THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL.]
BELL AND ROSE.
BY CAROLINE LEE KENT*.
it was well for her that she was uncon
scious of the terrible blow impending, though
-when it fell, it crushed—almost annihilated
tier—and she lay a miserable victim beneath
.the ruins of wealth and pi;ide. The
Bank, in which all her property was invest
ed, failed, and hundreds who were rolling in
affluence, were reduced to sudden penury.
The brother and sister were at first stunned
and dismayed, and then Bell wept and sob
bed like a heart-broken child. But after this
ebullition of passionate regret, it was aston
ishing with what calmness and fortitude she
looked the future in the face, dark and threat
ening as it seemed. Her mind, with elastic
power, rebounded from the pressure beneath i
which her mother impotently groaned, and
she exulted in the consciousness of new-born !
energies. Frank, too, was grave and thought
ful, but not despairing. It was for Bell he
trembled, not for himself, hut when he saw
her so brave and self-relving, it made him !
doubly strong.
“I am not going to shed another tear, j
Frank,” said she. “I feel now, that I shall
have an aim for which to live. J remember
a remark of Mr. Urviu’s, that labor was the
great sacrament of life. Is not that a nobje
sentiment ? I am sure I shall feel happier to
be doing something, than leading such a use-
VOL 111.
less, idle and selfish existence, as I have
I hitherto done.”
j “\es, it must he very noble to labor. But
I what can you do? I can work—l can toil—
I can do either head work or hand-work—
but wbat can you do with those fair, feeble
hands, and that little girlish head ?”
“I can do a great deal, sir. [ can teach a
school, give music or embroidery lessons.
: Drawing and painting 1 understand. I am
: willing to do any thing but take in sewing.
I believe that would kill me.”
“/ shall he able to support you and moth
icr both. You shall never toil for a subsis
| tenee.”
‘•We must give up this beautiful house,”
| said Bell.
“And get some neat little cottage in the
country,” cried Frank, “with a small farm
and a dairy.”
“Oh! that will he delightful,” exclaimed
Bell; “hut poor mother! I fear she will nev
er be happy again. It is dreadful to hear her
bewailings and murmurs. What shall we do
with her ?” ,
Yes, what was tj> he done with Mrs. Ray
mond ? That was the question. She was
the most refractory and unmanageable being
in the world. While her children were
bravely wrestling with their destiny, in all
their youth and inexperience, appealing to
her for counsel and encouragement, she g ive
herself up to frantic and impatient grief. She
would not hear to giving up the house sue
inhabited, with its costly a id elegant furni
ture, and live ii some little mean hovel,
which they, with their grovelling tastes,
might be satisfied i.i. S.'u was not sank so
low as that. Bell should never degrade her
self by teaching school or giving private les
sons. Frank should never perform a hire
ling’s duty, or accept a hireling’s wages.
“But what shall we live upon, mother ?”
asked her son. “How shall we pay our daily
expenses ?”
“How do other people live, who have failed,
I should like to know ? I know many a fam
ily which has kept up the same style as be
fore, only more elegant and luxurious. We
can do as they do.”
“Oh! mother, how can you speak in this
manner to your children, who are willing to
do an v thing for themselves and you ?” cried
Frank, his cheek burning with the hue of
shame.
“ There is certainly no need of raising all
this hue and cry at present. No one is go
ing to turn us out of house and home. A
family occupying the rank which ours does,
will be treated with more consideration. As
| for you, you have nothing to do but to ad
! dress Miss Haymead immediately,and secure
her fortune ; and as for you, Bell, a very lit
tle manoeuvering will bring Mr. Urvin, cold
and haughty as he is, to your feet.”
“Oh! mother!” it was Bell’s turn to ex
claim, “will you never understand me?
NY hen I first saw him of whom vou now
speak, I was vain and hold enough to medi
tate the conquest of his noble heart, willing
even to stoop to artifice and manoeuvering,
to effect my design. But now, since I know
him, and know myself better, I should as
soon think of alluring the sun from his cen
tral throne, as to dream of winning him by
those light and meretricious acts, his influ
ence has taught me to loathe and to scorn.
No, mother,” continued she—and her blue
eye lighted up with the enthusiasm she had
long kept down in her bosom, as some
thing too sacred for show, and shed a sud
den glory upon her fall “were lie freely and
unsought, to offer me his love, and were 1
worthy of such a gift, a long life were all too
short to prove my gratitude and joy. But
n**ver, never speak of it again. It is humilia
ting to us both.”
Without waiting for her mother to reply,
Bell hurried from the room, sighing for the
want of that maternal sympathy and support
for which her yearning spirit vainly sought.
Mr. U rvin did not desert them in these dark
ened moments. He came more frequently,
was more kind and assiduous than ever.
With equal delicacy and generosity, he offer
ed all the assistance which, as a friend, he
felt privileged to bestow. Mrs. Raymond
would eagerly have availed herself of his
politeness, as she called it, but the children
struggled nobly with her selfish resolve.
“YY e can never repay him,” they said;
“we cannot live under the burthen of obliga
tions so painfully incurred. We must rely
on ourselves, and we never shall be younger,
stronger, or more able to cope with our
destiny.”
i
| In spite of the frowns and reproaches of
her mother, Bell unfolded her plans to Mr.
Irvin, and frankly asked his advice as to the
best course to be adopted. His countenance
lighted up with pleasure as she spoke. The
glance he bent upon her was full of encour
agement and approbation.
“I know your motives,” said he. “I ad
mire your resolution. I thank you warmly
r w your confidence in my friendship and
your appeal to my judgment. I will do any
thing in the world to assist your noble de
sign. I have no doubt you will find in your
accomplishments an ample resource, and
your brother’s talents will enable him to se
cure some ofliee of honor and emolument.”
“Do you advise my daughter to advertise
as a hireling, for wages?” exclaimed Mrs.
Raymond, a hot, red flush spreading over
her face.
“I would advise her to follow the noble
impulse that urges her to gird herself for the
trials and discipline of life, madam.”
“But the disgrace, Mr. Urvin!”
“There is no disgrace in the performance
of duty. There is honor, there is glory in it.
Believe me, madam, vour daughter will be
j ....
far more worthy of admiration, giving lessons
in music and drawing, in your present emer
gency, than as the belle of a brilliant assem
bly, the cynosure of beauty and fashion.”
Bell looked towards him, her eyes radiant
with gratitude. How strong, hopeful, how
happy she felt! She longed to begin her new
life of duty and self-exertion. She talked
with animation of the future, which brighten
ed in the sunshine of Mr. Urvin’s approving
smile. Never had she seen him smile so be
nignly. Never bad bis voice sounded so
gently in her ear. Dili he indeed love Rose
Mayfield ?
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Raymond,as soon
as lie had departed, “it is all over now. If
he ever thought of marrying you, he would
never counsel you to take such a course.
That is certain. You might have had him, if
you had followed my advice, instead of turn
ing into sucli a poor, hum drum, spiritless
thing. All, me! who would wish to be a
mother?”
Poor Mrs. Raymond!
CHAPTER V.
“She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love and virgin shame.”
[Coleridge.
“Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence !
I am yoar wife, if you will marry me.”
[Shakespeare.
In spite of the opposition of .Mrs. Ray
mond, the proposed plans were carried into
operation. The house was given up, for one
suited to their altered circumstances. Beil,
through the influence of Mr. Urvin, who as
sumed all the responsibilities of her instal.
meat, obtained as in my pupils in music and
drawing, as she desired. Frank accepted
the office of clerk in one of the largest mer
cantile establishments in the city. The mer
chant had been a friend of his late father,
and was anxious to assist the young man,
who was willing to assist himself.
Thus the winter months passed away, and
they might have been happy, were it not for
the peevish repinings of Mrs. Raymond. It
is not probable that Frank had forgotten
Rose, or that he did not occasionally visit the
farmer’s cottage. When his mother persecu
ted him about Mi is Haymead, be always told
her that he did visit and nav court to her,
and that when he could hold bis head a little
higher, he intended to propose.
One evening, alter Bell had dismissed her
pupils, she sat leaning her head on the pi
ano, in a dejected, listless attitude. She felt
that sudden subsidence of the spirits, that
sinking of the heart, which persons of ardent
sensibility often experience, and for which
they cannot account. The burden of life
began to press a little heavier upon her. The
excitement of novelty was long since past, j
and the monotony of her daily task at this
moment assumed an aspect of absolute drea- i
riuess. She thought how sweet it would be,
to toil even’ ten times harder than she was j
compelled to do, sustained by the love of one [
whose name, even in thought, made all the
pulses of her being thrill. His friendship !
was the most precious boon of heaven—but j
his love! Oh! that would be Heaven itself. I
j “Oh! not for me, not for me!” murmured
i she to herself, while the tears glided faster
j and faster down her pale cheeks.
“In tears, Bell!” exclaimed Mr. Urv'n, en
tering at this moment, with unusually gentle
tread. “In tears!” repeated he, approaching
! her, and sitting down by her, he took one of her
trembling hands in his. “What has occurred
to sadden this brave, resisting spirit?”
“Nothing,” replied she hastily. “I am ve
ry foolish—very childish—hut sometimes
there is such a halm in tears!”
“You are weary. Your life is too monot
onous, too sedentary. Your burthen is great
er than you can hear. Lean on me—my
arm is strong, and my heart is firm. Sym
pathy, my poor child, is the sweetest privi
lege of friendship.”
Laying his hand soothingly on her head,
which bowed beneath his light touch, he
drew still nearer to her. When he talked to
her in low, gentle, yet earnest accents, of the
discipline of life; of the lire by which the
gold of the heart must be purified of its dross ;
of the clouds of suffering which, like those
that gather round the setting sun, change to
golden radiance beneath the rays of the Sun
of Righteousne ss—
“Oh!” thought she, “if friendship is so
sweet, so consoling, why should I sigh for
love ?”
“Would you not like to relinquish \-our
present toilsome mode of existence ?” he ask
ed. “Have you never dreamed of happiness
which cannot he enjoyed alone ? Does your
heart feel no dearth, no void, which the con
sciousness of duties performed, which even
the hope of Heaven cannot fill ?”
Never had he spoken with such thrilling
earnestness. Bell lifted her eyes to bow
them again before a glance of dazzling, bur
ning power, when the door opened and Mrs.
Raymond entered with her usual imposing
air. Mr. Urvin rose from his chair with a
slight contraction of the brow, indicative of
vexation. Bell, who had felt as if the crisis
of her destiny were at hand, when her trem-
Liing hopes were to be confirmed, or her
haunting fears made truths, never had known
her mother’s presence so oppressive. Frank
entered soon after, and under no circum
stances, could he be an uuwelcome guest —
COLUMBUS, GEORGIA, THURSDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 21, 1852.
there was something so gladdening and care
dispelling, and in spite of a little occasional
brusquerie, and don’t care for any thing kind
of manner, so love-creating about him.
“Frank,” said Mr. Urvin, “I want you and
your sister to take a ride in the country with
me to-morrow. You can go on horse back
if you please. Close confinement is wilting
the roses of her cheek, and the pure, rustic
breeze, fresh from the mountains, will do no
injury to yourself. Would you like it, Bell?”
“Oh, yes!” she replied, with so much ea
gerness she blushed afterwards, and wished
she could school her feelings better.
“I have promised my young friend, Rose
Mayfield, this pleasure long since,” said he.
“You are mere acquaintances now—l want
you to become friends—intimate, life-long
friends.”
“Rose Mayfield!” exclaimed Mrs. Ray
mond, giving her head one of its old-fashion
ed tosses. “I assure you, Mr. Urvin, that I
have no desire that my daughter should form
such intimacies. If we have lost our fortune,
we can at least retain our respectability and
self-respect.”
“Far be it from me, madam, to endanger
either. On the contrary, they will both be
enhanced by the intimacy I have urged on
your daughter.”
“Why, she is nothing but a poor farmer’s
daughter!”
“Mother!” interrupted Bell, “you forget
she is a friend of Mr. Urvin’s—the adopted
daughter of his sister. Surely you would
not wound his feelings by disparaging re
marks upon one in whom he is so deeply in
terested.”
“If Mr. Urvin chooses to form such associ
ations,” said the lady, exasperated on ac
i count of this depth of interest, which she con
sidered an outrageous injury to Bell, “I am
sure it is no business of mine. But in my
own family, 1 might expect some little influ
ence and authority. Ido not consider Miss
Rose Mayfield a proper companion for my
children.’’
“You appeared to admire her very much,
madam, when she had the honor of an intro
duction to you,” observed he, with a sarcas
tic smile.
“l! I never saw the girl in my life.”
“Pardon me for contradicting you, but you
met her under my own roof, where she divi
ded with your daughter, the admiration of a
large and brilliant assembly.”
“1 remarked no stranger but Miss Hay
mead,” cried she, beginning to look very red.
“Excuse me, mother,” said Frank, coming
forward. “I introduced her to you as Miss
Mayfield. The improvement you made upon
her name, was mi idea of your own. I sup
pose you thought it more aristocratic.”
“If you have all entered into a conspiracy
to deceive and make a fool of me,” exclaim
ed his mother, looking from one to the other
with inexpressible displeasure, “I know not
which most to admire, the silliness or imper
tinence of the plot.”
“It was pure accident, mother,” said Frank.
“I intended to correct the mistake, but you
seemed so charmed with her, I feared to
break the spell.”
“You said she was the heiress of a rich in
heritance. What a base deception!”
j “She is,” cried Mr. Urvin, with dignity.
J “Your son lias uttered nothing but the truth.
| She is the heiress of an inheritance ‘incor
j ruptible, undefiled, and that passeth not
away.’ Nor is this all, she has in reversion,
a fortune which you will probably deem of
far greater worth. As the adopted daughter
of my sister, she would have been splendidly
; endowed, had not treachery robbed her of
: her rightful dowry. I shall do her that jus
tice myself, which my sister was prevented j
from doing. Heaven lias blessed me with an j
ample fortune, which I intend, God willing, J
that Rose Mayfield shall share. She will be
no dowerless bride for the man, who, appre- j
dating her matchless excellence, shall bind
her to his heart by those ties which only i
crime or death can sever; and now, madam,” j
added he, subduing the somewhat command
ing tone of his voice, “I shall deem any re
marks derogatory to Rose Mayfield, as an in-
suit to myself, who am proud to consider my
self her guardian and her friend.”
Mrs. Raymond was too much awed by his
manner, and the dark fire that flashed from
his eye, to attempt a reply. Unable to sup
press her mortification, she abruptly left the
room and retired to her own, where we do
not believe any one had the least inclination
to follow her.
“Rose will share his fortune,” again and
j again sighed the throbbing heart of Bell. “It
is as his wife, he means. I thought—l knew
j —yes—l knew it would be so.”
; “Rose will share his fortune!” repeated
Frank, to himself. “Then it is decided, and
there is no earthly hope for such a poor fel
low as nwself. Heaven preserve me from j
the meanness of envy, and bind up the wound
which I fear will be inflicted on the heart of
my noble Bell.”
“To-morrow!” said Mr. Urvin in depart- j
ing. “I trust we shall have a happy day.” i
He looked very happy himself, but he left j
thoughtful, serious faces behind him.
[to be continued.]
Resignation. —A very worthy and
respectable gentleman from Portland, who
occasionally takes a “smile,” was asked by
a friend how he managed to get along where
the Maine Law was so rigidly enforced.
“Ah, sir,” he replied, “like a good
I go to my closet.” gj
[ From De Bow’s Review. 1
EARLY LIFE IN THE SOUTIIWEST
TIIE BOWIES.
[Dr. Kilpatrick, ot’ Trinity, Louisiana, furnishes us
the following interesting sketch of James Bowie, whose
reputation as the author of the “Bowie Knife,” and
subsequent career, down to his melancholy fate at the
Alamo, have almost a romantic interest. Dr. K. in
tends it as a supplement to his valuable paper upon
Catahoula, the early home of the Bowies, Ms mat erial
for the Biography at that time having been very meagre.
He is indebted to a brother of James Bowie, now resi
ding in Mississippi, for the sketch.—La.]
My father and mother were both barn in
th State of Georgia. They wore married
in 1782, in the county of Burke, of the same
State ; my mother’s maiden name being El
vira Jones; my father’s name was Reziu
Bowie. During my infancy, or about the
year 1787, my parents moved from Georgia
to the State of Tennessee, where they re
mained for six or seven years. During this
sojourn my father had frequent skirmishes
with the Indians, and was engaged in the
conflicts then so common in that devoted
country. After this lie removed to Logan
county, Kentucky, where my brother James
was born, in the spring of 1796.
My father was passionately fond of the
adventures and excitements of a woodsman’s
life, and as the country improved and open
ed, population increased, and the refine
ments of civilization encroached upon the
freedom of his hunting-grounds, he retired
to wilder regions, where he could enjoy
those sports and stirring adventures peculiar
to a frontier life. In the year 1890 he
removed to the State, or rather province of
Missouri, and in 1802 he came and settled
on the Bushley Bayou, in what was then the
district of Rapides, Louisiana, and under
Spanish rule. Here he remained till 1809,
| when he again, and for the last time, took up
the line of inarch, and finally settled in the
district of Opelousas, where lie remained un
til he died, in 1819, in the fall of the year.
He sleeps with the common mother Earth,
without stone or inscription to mark the
resting place of him whose bosom was so
often bared, and whose hand was so often
raised for the defence of his family, and the
homes and firesides of his countrymen,
against the secret and deadly attacks of sav
age foes. At his death he left four sons,
myself being the eldest, Reziu, James and
Stephen, and two daughters.
James Bowie, with the rest of my father’s
family, was raised mostly in remote and wild
regions, and consequently grew up with but
little education, or other advantages be ides
those inherited by natural endowment, or ac
quired from parental instruction. We cer
tainly were greatly indebted to cur dear
mother for much of the infotSfmti’ ; we pos
sessed. She was a sincerely pkn’A woman
and always inculcated the pure principled oY.
the religion of that Saviour whom she so
faithfully served.
My brother James spent the most impor
tant part of his childhood in Catahoula par
ish, between the years of 1802 and 1809,
embracing the period between the ages of six
and fifteen years.
About theyear 1814, James left my father’s ‘
iiouse and launched upon life—
“YVith a!! the world before him,”
and not only undertook to provide for him
self, hut actually did it, as has often been
done by hundreds of others before and since.
He settled on Bayou Bceuf, Rapides Parish,
and cleared a small piece of land, but his
chief moans of support was fr mi sawing
plank and other lumber with the common
whip-saw, and boating it down the Bayou for
sale. The proceeds of his lumber procured
him his food and clothing, powder and
shot, <fcc.
He was young, proud, poor and ambitious,
without any rich family connections, or in
fluential friends, to aid him in the battle of
life. After reaching the age of maturity he
was a stout, rather raw-boned man, of six
feet height, weighed 180 pounds, and about
as well made as any man 1 ever saw. His
hair was light colored, not quite red—his j
eyes were gray, rather deep set in liis head, ■
very keen and penetrating in their glance—
his complexion was fair, and his cheek-bones
! rather high. Taken altogether, he was a
j manly, fine looking person, and by many of
! the fair ones he was called handsome. He
| was possessed of an open, frank disposition,
with rather a good temper unless aroused
! by some insult, when the displays of his an-
I ger were terrible, and frequently terminated
in some tragical scene. But he was never
i known to abuse a conquered enemy, or to
| impose upon the weak and defenceless. A
man of very strong social feelings, he loved
his friends with all the ardor of youth, and
hated his enemies and their friends with all
the rancor of the Indian. lie was social and
plain with all men, fond of music and the
; amusements of the time, and would take a ,
glass in merry mood to drive dull care away;
but seldom allowed it to steal away his
brains, or transform him into a beast.
He lived and labored several years on
Bayou Bceuf, where no doubt many yet live
who can recount his deeds of wild sport and j
recklessness which he there performed, |
prompted by his innate love of excitement, j
He was fond of fishing and hunting, and of- ■
ten afforded rare sport to his neighbors by j
his daring exploits in roping and capturing !
wild deer in the woods, or catching and ri- ‘
ding wild, unmanageable horses. He has j
even been known to rope and ride alligators. !
He had a way of catching bears which was !
entirely original. In the summer season, j
when the bears were constantly ravaging the •
little patches of green corn of the early set
tlers, he adopted the following novel plan to
entrap them: After finding the place where
they usually entered the field, he procured
a hollow cypress knee, of suitable size, which
was properly cleaned out, and then sharp
iron spikes were driven through it with the
points inward and inclined downward, simi
lar to the fingers of a fish-trap. Being thus
prepared, some honey (of which the bear is
passionately fond) was put in the bottom of the
inverted knee, and this put at the place where
the bear crossed the fence. In his eagerness to
get the honev, Bruin would thrust his muzzle
and head down amongst the spikes; and
when he would attempt to draw out his head
the spikes would pierce the skin and flesh in
such a manner as to prevent him from throw
ing off the mask, and in this blindfolded con
dition be became an easy prey to his gleeful
captors.
During his sojourn here Bowie mixed a little
with society, and was very successful in secu
ring a fair portion of the friendship of the better
class of the people. As the country improved
and landed property became enhanced in valu
he sold his land on the Bayou and used the
means thus obtained in speculating in the
purchase of Africans from the notorious Lu
filte, who brought them to Galveston, Texas,
lor sale. James, Rezin and myself fitted out
some small boats at the mouth of the Calca
sieu, and went into the trade on shares. Our
plan of operations was as follows : \V r e first
purchased forty negroes from Lafitte, at the
rate of one dollar per pound, or aa average
of 8140 for each negro ; we brought them
into the limits of the United States, deliver
ed them to a custom-house officer, and be
came the informers ourselves; the law gave
the informer half of the value of the negroes,
which were put up and sold by the United
States marshal, and we became the purcha
sers of the negroes, took the half as our re
ward for informing, and obtained the mar
shal’s sale for the forty negroes, which enti
tled us to sell them within the United States.
We continued to follow this business until
we made 865,000, when we quit and soon
spent all our earnings.
James then went into the land speculation
and soon made 815,000. This business nec
essarily caused him to spend much of his time
I in the woods, where natural inclination also
gave the employment a charm peculiaily
pleasant to him. lie had a hunting-knife
made, which suited his fancy, by a common
blacksmith named Snowden. In after years
this knife became famous, owing to some
very tragical occurrences which originated
as follows: About the year 1526, James
; became involved in the political and party
| squabbles of the day, and his fiery, impul
j stye-nature caused him to enlist all his ener
! gies in tfßS_strife. At this time he resided in
j Alexandria, Gn'ftg.dßiver, and in some of the
| momentary excitemeit’fs of the day an al
tercation took place him and thq.
I sheriff of Rapides Parish, a .Vfp; —Norris
i Wright, during which Wright shot Baivie
| in his left breast, while lie was unarmed
j but had Wright not been rescued by his
! friends, James would have killed him with his
; fists. This attack so enraged him that he
! had a neat leather scabbard made for his
| hunting-knife, arid affirmed that he would
i wear it as long as lie lived, which he did.—
| About twelve months after this difficulty, or
in September, 1827, the great duel took
place at Natchez.
After my brother recovered from his
wounds, lie felt as though he had not been
well used or properly treated by some of his
political friends, so he determined to leave the
United States and go to Texas. For several
years he had spent his winters in New Orleans,
but during the time was engaged in no
business besides what was connected with
his land speculations. He continued to
spend tiiese seasons there until he finally dis
posed of his lands and negroes, which was
about the year 1829 or 1839, when he left for
Texas with only about a thousand dollars,
which he invested there in lands.
He fearlessly launched forth into all the
then existing war and strife of that country.
His valor and courage recommended him to
the chivalrous Mexicans, and in a short time
he won a name and distinction in that coun- j
try. Here he married the daughter of
Ex-Governor Berrymenda. She lived to
have one child, but both mother and child
were followed to the grave before he was
killed at the Alamo.
j During the few years he spent in Texas
he had many strange and hazardous adven
tures, probably the most notable of which
| was the following: He and Rezin Bowie,
with nine others, went in search of a silver
; mine about 200 miles northwest of San An
j tonio. While on this expedition they were
attacked by about one hundred and fifty Ca
manche Indians. James being well acquain
ted with the habits and manners of these sav
ages, soon perceived that they were on trail
of him and his little party for the purpose of j
j murdering or robbing them ;so he availed
| hirnself of the first suitable place for defence.
He selected a point of woodland jutting out
to a point in the prairie where there were
great quantities of loose stones, out of which
he and his men soon constructed a tempora
ry fort for immediate defence; but before
they had completed their work the savages
“ “■ Came down like the wolf on the fold.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
J hat host with their banners at noon-day were seen ;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn liath blown,
That hott in the evening lay withered and strewn.”
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NO. 43.
These modern Parthians, who fight only
on horseback, and almost live on horseback,
are perhaps the most formidable warriors in
the country. They came boldly up within
sixty yards of the little rocky fort, and open
ed a murderous fire upon the inmates. On
the first fire they killed a Mr. Castlemao,
broke the leg of a Mr. Pool, and shot a Mr.
Doyal through the body, who however re
covered afterwards. This left the two Bo
wies, five other white men and one negro,
who had to defend themselves against these
merciless wretches, and at the same time
nurse and attend their wounded comrades.
The Indians continued their attack, riding ra
pidly round and round the fort, and keeping up
an incessant fire. But in the mean time the
inmates of the fort were not idle but they kept
up a deadly and effective fire upon their as
sailants. James on one side and Rezin on
the other, encouraged and cheered their com
rades, and showed them how to dodge, the
shots of the enemy. The fight continued
tor three or four hours; the savages*then re
treated a short distance, leaving some fifty
or sixty of their dead on the prairie grass,
together with a number of dead horses :
“For there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
Bat through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ;
And the foam of his gasping lay red on the turf)
And cold as the spray ot the rock beaten surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and paie,
With the gore on his brow and the gore on his mail ;
And the tents are all silent, the banners alone.
The lances unlisted, the trumpet unblown.”
During the night they carried away the
dead bodies of their comrades, and early
next morning renewed the attack and con
tinued to do so for several days, every day’
forming their line of attack yet farther and
farther olf, until they got beyond the reach of
gun-shot. Finally, after having killed fully a
hundred of the Indians, and their wounded
comrades were in such a situation as to bo
moved, they determined to leave Rocky
Fort, which they did in the night, bringing
Pool and Doyal safe back to the settlements.
James had many other fights with the In
dians and Mexicans, particulars of which I
am unable to furnish you.
lie closed his career in the bloody battle
of the Alamo, where he was not so fortunate
as he was at Rocky Fort, though equally as
brave and dauntless, and his rifle was fully
as deadly as before.
After the final destruction of all the brave
inmates of the Alamo, and when they cams
to attend to the burial of the dead, traditional
says that the Mexican chief officer on UgumM
the remains of James Bowie to be honora
bly buried by themselves, as he said, “he was
too great a man to be buried with the common
soldiers.” He sleeps alone, without any
stone or inscription to mark the spot, or say
to the passer-by, “here lie the mortal remains *
of the brave.” J. J. B.
[ From Fmedley's Practical Treatise on Business. J
PETER T. BARIUM’S RULES
FOK SUCCESS IN BUSINESS.
I can scarcely expect to offer anything
new on the subject proposed, but will name
ajfiw rules tl at, I am convinced, from ex
periencSsand observation, must be observed
in order in business:
Ist. Select the kuir^oj’business that suits
your natural inciinations'Trlf.f temperament.
Some men are naturally mechanic’s
have a strong aversion to anything like ma
chinery, and so on ; one man has a natural
taste for one occupation in life, and another B
for another. “I am glad we do not feel and
think alike,” said Dick Homespun, “for if we
did, everybody would think my gal, Sukey
Snipes, the sweetest creature in all creation,
and they would all be trying to court her
at once.”
I never could succeed as a merchant. I
have tried it unsuccessfully several times. I
never could be content with a fixed salary,
for mine is a purely speculative disposition,
while others are just the reverse, and there
fore all should be careful to select those oc
cupations that suit them best.
2d. Let your pledged word ever be sacred ,
Never promise to do anything without per
forming it with the most rigid promptness.—
Nothing is more valuable to a man in busi
ness than the name of always doing as he
agrees, and that to the moment. A strict
adherence to this rule gives a man the com
mand of half .the spare funds within the
range of his acquaintance, andalwaj-s encir
cles him with a host of friends, who rnay be
depended upon in almost any conceivable
emergency.
3d. Whatever you do, do with all your
\might. Work at it, if necessarjq early and
late, in season and out of season, not leav
iuga stone unturned and never deferring for a
single hour that which can just as well bedone
now. The old proverb is full of truth and mean
ing : “Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth
doing well.” Many a man acquires a fortune
by doing his business thoroughly, while his
neighbor remains poor for life because he
only half does his business. Ambition, ener
gy, industry, and perseverance, are indispen
sable requisites for success in business." 5
4th. Sobriety. Use no description of in
toxicating drinks. As no man can succeed
in business unless he has a brain to enable
him to lay his plans, and reason to guide
him in their execution, so, no matter how
bountifully a man may be blessed with in
telligence, if his brain is muddled, and lira
judgment warped by intoxicating drinks, it
is impossible for him to carry on business
successfully. How many good opportunities
have passed never to return, while a man was